by Anne Gracie
My dear Ayisha,” Lady Cleeve came down the stairs to greet them. “I must apologize—” she broke off. “Good heavens, it’s like looking into a mirror fifty years ago.”
Ayisha exchanged a glance with Rafe. “Are you all right, ma’am? You look a little pale,” she said.
Lady Cleeve straightened. “I’m all right, my dear, thank you. Seeing you, seeing your face does me a great deal of good, even though it emphasizes how foolish I’ve been. Come with me.” She led them to the sitting room and pointed to a painting hanging on the wall.
“There,” she said. “Me, just before I married your grandfather. If ever I doubted you, doubted the wisdom of you coming here, this picture is the proof that you were meant to come to me. You are my own flesh and blood, and nothing else matters.” She held out her arms to Ayisha, and Ayisha hugged her.
Later they spoke over tea and cakes.
“I saw your letter to Rafe, my dear—he did not mean me to read it,” Lady Cleeve added with a rueful look, “but I did, and it showed me how badly I’d wronged you. But I cannot wholly blame Mrs. Whittacker; it was my own prejudice that made me cruel. I want to explain why I responded as I did—about St. John’s Wood.”
Ayisha stilled. That hurt was still very tender.
“I didn’t really mean it. I am . . . bitter about mistresses, that’s all.” She twisted a handkerchief in her bony old fingers and began, “You see, my husband kept a mistress all the time we were in India—a local woman, far beneath my notice—but to my shame I was deeply jealous. Not only did she have my husband, you see, she was able to keep her children. There were four.”
She added in a lower voice, “I lost five babies to the Indian climate. Henry was my only child to survive his infancy, but when he turned seven, my husband sent him off to England to school.” Her face quivered. “Such a little boy he was, too. I begged my husband to let him stay with me another few years, or to let me go with him to England, but he said it was bad for a boy to be smothered by a doting mother, and my place was at my husband’s side. And he sent my little boy away.”
The old lady’s face worked as she fought to keep her emotions under control. Ayisha slipped out of her chair and knelt beside her grandmother.
The bony fingers knotted hard around the handkerchief. “Every day I had to see that woman walking down the street past our house with all her healthy, glowing, happy children around her—the children my own husband had given her. While I was left alone. And bitter . . . When I saw my Henry again, he was all grown up and polite, like a stranger.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
She wiped her eyes, took a few deep, shaky breaths, then looked down at Ayisha. “I took out that hurt and anger on you, my dear, and I cannot express my regret deeply enough—”
“Hush, it does not matter,” Ayisha said, stroking the gnarled old hand. “Papa wronged his wife, there’s no denying it, just as his father wronged you.”
She hesitated, then added, “My friend Laila says we should leave the past in the past, because if we take it with us, it will only poison the future.”
“Your friend is a wise woman.”
Just then there was a knock at the door and the butler entered. “Mr. Pilkington, the lawyer, my lady.”
Lady Cleeve brightened. “Send him in, Adams.”
Rafe and Ayisha stood. “We’ll leave you alone,” Rafe said.
Lady Cleeve waved them back with an imperious gesture. “No, stay. I sent for Pilkington last week to have him change my will.” She tossed Rafe a mildly challenging look. “Removing the name of Alicia Cleeve and replacing it with that of Ayisha Machabeli, only daughter of Kati Machabeli and Sir Henry Cleeve, baronet, my granddaughter.”
The lawyer entered. Lady Cleeve performed the introductions but when she came to Ayisha, introducing her as “My granddaughter, Ayisha Machabeli,” the lawyer corrected her. “Ayisha Cleeve, I believe,” he said, with a smile.
He explained, “Last week when your ladyship gave me the instructions for the new will, I was struck by the name Kati Machabeli. It rang a bell, so to speak. So I went through your late son’s papers and sure enough, I found this and this.” He laid a flimsy document on the table.
Lady Cleeve picked it up and glanced at it, stared at the lawyer, and examined the document more carefully. “Is this genuine?” she demanded.
“I believe so,” the lawyer said.
“Would you care to enlighten us of the contents of the document?” Rafe said dryly.
The lawyer started, “Oh, of course, of course, sir.” He passed it to Rafe. “It’s a wedding certificate recording the marriage of Sir Henry Cleeve to Kati Machabeli—it took place a month before Sir Henry’s recorded death.”
“They got married?” Ayisha exclaimed. “When was this?”
The lawyer gave her the date. “I must apologize for not bringing it to anyone’s attention sooner, but I did not realize. My late grandfather dealt with all of this and—” The lawyer hesitated. “There’s no denying it, Grandad was getting rather muddled in his old age. The files were in a shocking mess, and although I managed to get them into rough order after he died, I didn’t read them closely, since all concerned had been dead several years.”
Ayisha looked at Rafe. “Their last trip to Jerusalem. I was to go with them, but I came down with measles the day before they left and couldn’t go. I knew Mama was very excited about the trip, but . . . I had no idea this was planned . . . And when they returned they were dying . . .” She frowned. “Do you know, I think Mama tried to tell me, only I didn’t understand . . .” She sat back in her chair, stunned. “Married. How wonderful.”
“Ahem,” the lawyer cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m afraid this marriage does not, er, as it were, change the status of your, ahem, birth. You are still, ahem, as it were . . .” He trailed off.
“Illegitimate,” Ayisha said. “Yes, I understand that. It doesn’t matter. The marriage proves what I’ve said all along, that Papa truly did love my mother.” She looked at Rafe, her eyes swimming. “And he tried to protect her. The marriage would free her, you see, make her her own person.”
“I know.” He smiled. “I think it also means you are entitled to be known as—for the next few weeks at least—as Miss Ayisha Cleeve.”
“Yes, indeed,” Lady Cleeve said.
“It also means you inherit all Sir Henry’s property,” the lawyer said.
“Really?” Ayisha exclaimed. “Does that include a house in Cairo?”
The lawyer blinked, but searched through his papers. “Yes, there is a house, currently leased to a—”
“Excellent,” she said. “Can we give it to Ali?” she said to Rafe.
He laughed. “Give it to whoever you want. It’s yours to do with what you like.”
“Then I will give it to Ali.” She beamed at the lawyer. “Thank you, Mr. Pilkington. You’ve made me very happy.”
Rafe glanced across at Ayisha’s grandmother. She was watching her granddaughter with a soft expression. Rafe leaned forward and tapped her on the arm.
“I did warn you to be cautious,” he murmured with a smile.
She gave him a misty smile in return. “Too late, Mr. Ramsey, too late. My granddaughter is an extraordinary young woman. Thank you for bringing her to me.”
“She’s only on loan,” Rafe said firmly. “The banns have been called. In four weeks she will be mine.”
Ayisha heard him and laughed. “No,” she said. “I’m yours already. And in four weeks there will be a wedding.”
Twenty-one
All week long carriages had been rolling up the graveled drive of Axebridge as people gathered for the wedding. The guest list contained two dukes, a marquess, several earls, a handful of barons, a clutch of baronets, and many more distinguished guests. Shy, plain, extremely well-connected Lucy, Countess of Axebridge, had asked, and everyone had come.
Lucy was determined her new sister-in-law would be launched in the best possible company. If people were going
to gossip about this wedding, they would gossip for the right reasons, she vowed.
The beautiful sixteenth-century Axebridge chapel was filled with flowers; a lovely informal mixture of spring blossoms, wild narcissus, bluebells, and hyacinths mixed with hothouse orchids, sprays of pussy willow, and long-stemmed water irises. The fragrance of the flowers mingled with the scent of the beeswax that had been used to polish the ancient oak pews to a glowing shine. Every pane of stained glass sparkled, every inch of brass, silver, and gold in the church gleamed.
Ayisha gazed at her reflection in the looking glass and took a deep breath. “I hope you’re watching, Mama,” she whispered, “I hope your wedding was as beautiful as mine is going to be.”
Her dress was of delicately embroidered white-on-white silk and was heavy, soft, and felt beautiful to wear, with a skirt that swirled as if made for dancing. Hundreds of tiny pearls were sewn in rows down the bodice—simple, but very elegant, Lucy had said when Ayisha had first shown her the design.
With it she wore her grandmother’s magnificent pearl rope, and over the exquisite veil of Spanish lace that Lucy had lent her she wore a circlet of pearls. On her feet she wore a pair of white satin boots.
Ayisha loved boots, loved the slight extra height they gave her and the extra warmth they gave. And since the chapel was a five-minute walk from the house, and the English weather so chilly, she was not going to have frozen toes at her own wedding.
The rest of her was in no danger of freezing, either, for Rafe had given her a green velvet cloak, lined with white satin and fringed with white fur, to wear in case it was cold.
She glanced across at the bed, where Laila’s parcel lay, and smiled. “For your wedding night,” Laila had said at the time. Ayisha had left it until this morning, and when she’d unwrapped it . . . It was the naughtiest harem outfit, straight from the Arabian Nights stories, sheer silken pants, a tiny jeweled bodice, and some delicate veils. And as accessories, an ankle chain with bells and small finger cymbals.
An outfit to drive a man wild with desire.
Ayisha couldn’t wait.
“Are we ready?” George, Earl of Axebridge, entered the room. He looked her up and down. “You look very beautiful, Ayisha. My brother is a lucky man.” He turned to his wife and said, “And the matron of honor, my Lucy in blue, as lovely as the day we married.”
“Oh, what nonsense,” Lucy said gruffly, but her face glowed with pleasure.
She was plain, Ayisha thought, but with her face lit with love like that, Lucy became beautiful.
The three of them walked to the chapel arm in arm. It was extraordinary, Ayisha thought, how these two had welcomed her into the family. More, she thought, glancing at Lucy; they had taken her to their hearts.
A small crowd of people had gathered outside the chapel, mostly local people come for the spectacle and for the coins that the groom would throw afterward, but there were three ladies Ayisha recognized.
“Mrs. Ferris, Mrs. Wiggs, Mrs. Grenville,” she exclaimed. “How—?”
“We were in the neighborhood and saw the notices in the paper and we thought, why not come to see you wed,” Mrs. Ferris said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” Ayisha said. “I’m so pleased to see a familiar face. Please, go into the church.”
“Oh no, no—we didn’t come to intrude,” Mrs. Grenville said.
“It’s such a grand affair and—”
“Please,” Ayisha said. “You could sit on the bride’s side of the church. There will be plenty of room. I have only my grandmother.”
The three ladies exchanged glances. “Well, if you put it like that . . .” and they hurried ahead into the church.
Ayisha took a deep breath and, on George’s arm, stepped into the church, peeked around the corner. And gasped.
She’d expected to see the church looking half empty, with the pews on her side of the church containing just her grandmother and the three ladies. Instead they were almost as full as Rafe’s side.
Every one of Rafe’s friends had chosen to sit on the bride’s side. At the front was her grandmother, looking stunning in gold tissue and claret velvet, ready to give the bride away.
With her sat a distinguished-looking gray-haired man, her grandmother’s surprise guest, Alaric Stretton, the artist who’d started everything with his picture of Ayisha at thirteen.
Behind her grandmother sat Harry Morant and his sweet-faced wife, Nell, who’d arrived the day before with their tiny daughter, Torie. Baby Torie had spent most of the time since in Lucy’s arms. She was a very happy baby, quite content to be passed around.
Beside Harry and Nell sat big, brawny Ethan Delaney, sneaking an arm around his little, pregnant wife, Tibby. There was Lady Gosforth, magnificent in purple, escorted by her flinty-eyed nephew, Marcus, Earl of Alverleigh, and Nash Renfrew, his brother.
Only Rafe’s friend Gabe and his wife, the Princess of Zindaria, were missing, but the princess was expecting a child, and the trip was too arduous for a woman in advanced pregnancy. They’d sent a representative, a handsome young man wearing the uniform of the Royal Zindarian Guard. He sat beside Nash, chatting as if they were old friends, on the bride’s side of the church.
There was Lady Ripton, Luke’s mother, the warm, motherly woman who’d insisted her son bring his lonely young school friend, Rafe Ramsey, home for Christmases and Easters. With her sat Luke’s pretty young sister, Molly, as well as his two older married sisters and their husbands. Luke was not sitting with them; he was Rafe’s best man.
All of them on her side of the church, declaring themselves to be her family. Ayisha’s eyes blurred.
George gave a signal and the opening chords of music played. Ayisha looked down the aisle to the front of the church and there, standing tall and grave and utterly beautiful, was the man she’d crossed the world for, the man she loved with all her heart. The moment he saw her his eyes lit with blue fire . . .
The music swelled and she slowly walked toward him. Her prince, her pasha, her love.
Epilogue
Foxcotte 1818
Can’tbelieve the change in old Johnny,” Bertie Baxter said. He’d arrived without warning, fresh off a ship from Alexandria, bringing a packet of letters and gifts from Baxter, Laila, and Ali.
“Thought the sun had finally fried his brains when I heard he’d stepped into the parson’s mousetrap for a second time, but, have to say, he looks well on it—despite the chaos of the place.”
“Chaos?” Ayisha said. “But Laila’s a meticulous house-keeper.”
“Oh, it’s not her, no, she’s a fine woman and seems to suit Johnny down to the ground. It’s those brats of hers.”
“What brats?” Ayisha asked, mystified.
Bertie Baxter gave her an odd look. “Thought she was a friend of yours, ma’am, but if she ain’t—”
“She is, my very dearest friend,” Ayisha exclaimed.
“Then how is it you don’t know she’s the mother of four children?” Bertie Baxter said bluntly.
“Four children?” Ayisha echoed.
“There’s the oldest boy, Ali; he’s a good lad, by and large. Johnny’s very proud of him. And there’s no harm in the baby, Rafiq—named after you, Rafe, I gather, but the worst are those twins.”
“Twins?” Ayisha gaped.
Bertie nodded. “The little girls. Three years old and pretty as you could want with big brown eyes and curly hair, like a pair of little dolls—but don’t you believe it,” he added darkly. “Little hellions, both of them. Got this habit of crawlin’ all over a fellow—without so much as an invitation—pullin’ at his clothes, ruinin’ a neckcloth that took an hour to perfect, mussin’ a chap’s hair.”
Ayisha exchanged an amused look with Rafe. Laila must be in seventh heaven with three adopted children. The details would be in the letters Baxter’s cousin had brought; she hadn’t read them yet, not wanting to be rude and read them in front of the guest who’d brought them. But already she knew the letters
would be full of happy news.
Bertie Baxter went on, “All Johnny’s fault, of course. He encourages them to think of people as furniture.” He shuddered. “Never thought the day I’d see Johnny Baxter with a clutch of brats crawling all over him—and laughing about it.”
He stood up. “Well, I’d best get going if I want to get home before dark. Good to see you again, Rafe, and delightful to meet you, Mrs. Ramsey, after hearin’ so much about you. Thank you for the refreshments.”
He started to leave, then swung back. “Oh, almost forgot, Laila gave me a message for you, Mrs. Ramsey. Said it was important. Now what was it?” He frowned in thought. “Oh yes, she said to tell you she has a very fine stallion now, and she hopes you have one, too.”
Ayisha fought a blush and did her best to keep a straight face.
Baxter rattled on, oblivious, “All very well for her to say she has a stallion, think it a hum, myself. In all the time I was there, I never saw her with any sort of horse—stallion or not. And why a stallion? Why not an ass? That’s what they usually ride there.”
“Why not a stallion?” Ayisha managed with an innocent look.
“Take it from me, Mrs. Ramsey, a stallion is not a suitable mount for a lady. Nasty, unpredictable brutes. A nice gelding or a mare would suit you much better.”
“I don’t agree,” she said.
Baxter gave Ayisha an earnest look. “You don’t have a stallion, do you, Mrs. Ramsey? Rafe wouldn’t mount you on such a dangerous thing, surely?”
Rafe made a noncommittal sound. He was watching Ayisha with narrowed eyes.
“Oh, but a stallion makes for such an exciting ride,” she said mischievously, giving Rafe a provocative look. “I wouldn’t mount anything else.”
Rafe’s face took on a graven expression. Ayisha giggled. He’d worked it out.
